


Pineapple Express

by Bai_Marionette



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Implied Past Drug Addiction, Implied past alcoholism, Lots of implications in this lmao, M/M, Trans Male Character, implied break up, implied infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 20:56:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8816002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bai_Marionette/pseuds/Bai_Marionette
Summary: Down by 24th and Main Street, there's an old food truck that had once brought them together. It held nostalgia among its weeds and old reckless love on the curb of the sidewalk. But it was rundown now, much like the relationship it had started. 
Tattoo artist/Bassist AU.





	

**Author's Note:**

> been feeling down over myself lately and it's finals, so here - have some angst.

Over a decade in the tattoo business, technically a decade and three years counting a few internships, Alfred was doing well for himself. He had made a name for himself in Los Angeles since moving from the east coast. His schedules were open for barely a day before his assistant, a girl by the name of Bella, had gotten them filled for him. It was sometimes hectic, but it was a good hectic, a kind of hectic that Alfred enjoyed.

Alfred loved his career, loved his little tattoo parlor and most of the clients he worked with. He said most, because there were always those select few where after a long day, Alfred’s hands were beyond cramping, his fingers beyond covered with smeared ink and his patience worn so thin that it was practically transparent. But those cases were rare and far in-between now, no one wanted to cross him and risk him kicking them out with a half-finished tattoo and a complete refund.

2006 had been a great year, one that he recalled ever so fondly in his early years of being on his own in L.A.

Presently, the blond was finishing up on a mother’s tattoo, a semi-long 6-hour detailing. Husband was military, she was army medical and her twin sons had just enlisted; she wanted a tattoo added onto her back to bring the family together so she could carry them wherever she went. It was a nice, sentimental gesture and one that Alfred heavily respected. She was also funny. He had been making idle chat with her for the last few hours, genuinely interested and entertained in the retold stories of her boys and her “chicken-mouthed husband.”

Going over the final colorings made Alfred almost sad to see her go, but the look upon her face at seeing the final masterpiece made him smile. The mother’s eyes had welled up and she had almost crushed him in a tight hug thanking him profusely for his commission. Another twinge went through his heart. He loved this part of his job, making people happy, seeing his art make others this happy, was a payment in its own right.

The mother had paid in advance, having heard from multiple people that he would give her good work, taking care in applying her bandage and writing notes to herself on her tablet for the upkeep of the fresh tattoo before waving goodbye and going to meet her ‘little chicklets’ at the diner some ways down with their ‘chicken-mouthed daddy.’

His assistant, Bella, had already left so Alfred was left by himself in the nearly dark parlor, taking up what he needed to go home, as well as grabbing his sketchbook to work up some new designs and ideas for other clients in the next few weeks. He had just been about to grab his motorcycle keys off the rack when he heard their familiar jingle across the floor. Alfred blinked, turning on the light, “What the-?”

The person hissed in a breath, one large hand covering their eyes and the other waving the keys, “Nice to see you too-”

The figure now more readily identified as Ivan Bragnisky, lead bass guitarist and lead vocalist in a popular alternative metal band, laughed at seeing Alfred practically trip over his feet to hug him. Still more than a head shorter than him, the Russian grinned, burying his big nose in the other’s hair. Ink, strawberries and a touch of coconut oil – things that Alfred always smelled like, but nonetheless, Ivan kept checking for to make sure the other hadn’t changed.

Alfred tried talking through Ivan’s shirt, the taller rolled his eyes and yanked the shorter male’s head back to hear him more clearly. Alfred made a delightful keen, something that Ivan rewarded with a small scratch underneath his chin. The look in the artist’s eyes made something in the Russian almost swell.

But they needed to be somewhere more private for that.

:::

They were down in the sushi place, a hole-in-the-wall by most L.A. standards, but the pair loved it especially. It was nearly midnight and as they went back and forth over various conversation topics, stealing pieces from each other’s sushi plate and the atmosphere was genuinely lighthearted… until the topic of Ivan’s tour came up.

“So did your tour get held up or something?” Alfred asked around a bite of an avocado roll, clapping his chopsticks together before eying the small plate of pickled radish on the conveyer belt. He took ahold of a vegetable tempura instead, eying Ivan over the rim of his glasses, blue eyes concentrating on the other, waiting.

“What do you mean?” Ivan asked cautiously, chewing over the California roll in his mouth carefully. His foot tapped off-beat to the music playing in the background of the sushi restaurant. His tongue was starting to feel thick but he didn’t want to alert Alfred, he didn’t want this to turn into another argument.

“Your tour,” Alfred repeated, nearly missing the chopstick as he chomped on the end of the tempura a bit too harshly. He took a napkin to wipe his mouth, taking a moment to think before he repeated himself, “I was asking about your tour. You said you were coming back in January.”

Ivan fidgeted in his seat, then refilled his cup of sake and downed it.

“And now it’s May, wanna explain that?” Alfred pressed on. “C’mon, did ya’ll add new tour dates or something? You promised you were coming home in-”

“I know what I said,” Ivan said a bit too quickly, running a hand through his hair. He thought his voice had been too loud, when the tattooed blonde’s face grew darker. Aw shit. Ivan sighed and then repeated in a softer tone. “I know what I said-”

“Promised.”

“What?” The larger male was getting irritable, he was pouring more sake and Alfred stopped him from downing the next cup, placing his hand over the mouth of the cup and looking Ivan straight in the eyes. The taller pointedly past the other man’s head, taking advantage of their height differences.

“You promised, you didn’t just tell me,” the shorter emphasized. “ _You promised me_.”

Alfred gave a sigh of his own, retreating into his seat and just glancing down at Ivan’s hand on the table, he wasn’t even wearing their gumball ring anymore…

Alfred felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. “The fuck is with you lately? I’m just asking about your tour ‘cos you’ve been coming home late and-”

“I know what I said, alright?” Ivan whispered a bit too harshly. He knew he had made a mistake as he took in the shorter blond’s reaction. Alfred’s face turned steely after a moment of surprise and then he was peeling his inked hand from Ivan’s cup. He crossed his arms over his chest, food forgotten, and the music seemed almost deafening in the forced silence. “I know what I said, okay. But just, things came up alright, it’s no big deal-”

“No, it is a big fucking deal,” Alfred cut in. “You promised me _January_ , I took off that Friday and know who showed up-”

“Oh, not this again,” Ivan groaned, putting down his chopsticks too hard on the table. He was rolling his eyes, getting frustrated.

“Yes, this again,” Alfred snapped. “You wanna play like a low down bitch, then I’ll show my country ass too. Where the fuck were you? Not even a phone call, an email or text message, Ivan, I hate how you do this-”

“Why is it even a big deal, Fedya?” The Russian was flagging down the waitress and asking her to bring them the check so that they could leave. When she left, his smile dropped and he was propping his head on one hand, almost glaring down at his remaining sushi. He popped one in his mouth, it tasted like wet cardboard in his mouth as Alfred continued on.

“-his is that bullshit that I was talking about before you left, Ivan.” Alfred continued, “You act like you don’t care, you act like –”

Alfred stopped, just cut himself mid-sentence, an unfamiliar tone to his voice. Ivan couldn’t place the emotion behind it, it just sounded… not-Alfred.  “You didn’t wanna come home, did you?”

His shoulders sunk, the silence held in Ivan’s minor shock and neither could even fake a smile when the waitress came over. Alfred was barely holding his head up, tracing a familiar patch of ink on his arm, half of an image of a brilliant sunflower. Ivan felt guilt churn uncomfortably in his gut, the matching half on his right forearm burning like a bad itch.

“Alfred,” Ivan started. But Alfred was already getting up, not even bothering to pack his sushi in the waiting takeout bowl, grabbing his coat and things together and making a beeline for the door. The Russian angrily sighed into his hands, muttering swears underneath his breath. The strong smell of the sake he had drank came back to his nose and he tried to hold the scent for a minute.

He quickly put a bill on the table, left a note for the waitress to keep the change and took up the takeout trays and made for the door. He knew the bus route to get to Alfred’s apartment and he still had his key so he just hoped that the other hadn’t had any ideas to change the lock.

He sighed in the warm November air.  
Not even a few hours into being home and he was already fucking up.

:::

Alfred didn’t answer the door so Ivan used his key. The artist was sitting on the leather loveseat in the center of the studio apartment, their shared pet dog laying its head across Alfred’s lap and looking upset with her owner’s sunken mood. Alfred sipped something from a wine glass. The liquid looked all too familiar.

“Thought you gave up drinking?” Ivan asked, walking forward and gesturing with his eyes to the wine glass.

Alfred took a long sip, pointedly staring ahead and not looking at the other.

“Alfred.”

The other held up a shaky finger to silence him, finished the rest of the glass with a sigh, “Whven you shtoppted comin’ hom’.”

Ivan sighed again, running his hand through his hair again and making to put his coat on the wall rack. Alfred sounded bitter and almost partly tipsy. That hadn’t been his first glass of the night. Ivan was going to have to stop him and soon.

“Give me that,” the Russian tried to take the bottle but Alfred lashed out – throwing the glass behind Ivan’s head and then snatching up the little Pekinese and stomping to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Ivan raised his head to the ceiling, trying not to get too upset, he had to be understanding. He had come home late, he hadn’t called home much or sent much of any word back home at all. He had been a distant partner lately, distant was too light, he had been a _shitty_ lover lately. He inhaled deeply, held it and wished he could have a cigarette. But he’d quit for Alfred-

Ivan looked back at the broken wine glass, shoulders sinking and getting more upset with the situation. He sighed to himself, walking quietly to the bedroom and leaning against the bedroom. He could hear soft hiccups and what sounded like muffled crying barely audible over the dog’s whines.

“I…I jush don’ kno’ Lasshie… I’m tryin’ so har’ – I wa’t up fo’ somethin’ an’ he jush-.” A hiccup and a broken sob, “’m I naht enough?”

Ivan felt worse, eavesdropping on the conversation, knowing this was partly his fault. Partly. Ha, that’s funny, he noted to himself as he walked back to the loveseat and rearranged the pillows to lie down. He put his lighter jacket over his face, hoping that Alfred was sober and tolerable in the morning.

:::

Ivan woke up alone in the apartment. The dog was on his chest, snoring lightly, golden tags shining in the soft daylight catching through the blinds. The Russian blinked, trying to readjust himself, jet lag finally kicking in while his back was protesting about him having slept on the unsupportive leather.

He tried to gather his thoughts, biting his lip and rolling his lip ring with his tongue as he tried to plan his next move. He knew Alfred’s work schedule but he also knew the other hated when his work was interrupted. Said something about hating to stop his concentration mid-way through and Ivan had learned early on that the quickest way to getting on Alfred’s bad side was to force him to pause in his creations.

Ivan settled for gently easing the dog off his chest, washing up and then leashing the pup to go for a walk. While they walked and it sniffed around, he silently took in the familiar and new sights. He heard the familiar noise of traffic, of people talking and yelling and going about their lives, of buses dinging open their doors and cars honking. He smelt the familiar stench of trash and week old pizza behind the dumpsters, the traces of cigarette smoke and marijuana, of the early rising alcoholic on a pre-work beer run, of burnt tire and old asphalt with someone’s too strong perfume or cologne. It was so familiar to him and yet also so surreal, he really hadn’t been home in a while and it showed as he saw how certain streets beheld new buildings.

The old ma and pop pizza place that he had grown up with, the one that changed $30 for a large pizza that everyone knew was from the frozen food aisle but bought anyways because the couple was so sweet, that one; it was gone – replaced by some faux “authentic Italian” joint. One look at the name told Ivan it wasn’t Italian, it was French.

Old cracks were familiar under his boots but the new ones always took him off-guard and the pup would yelp-bark when the tall man nearly stumbled and bumped the back of its heels as she trotted along. Eventually the pair came upon the very restaurant where it had all started:

Pineapple Express, a Hawaiian-themed food truck that had served two struggling artists with habits on a random night at 3AM in the morning.

:::

Alfred was battling his alcoholism on his own and trying to get his foot in the door of every tattoo shop he could find in southern California. He was sitting on the curb in tacky shorts and a worn-out t-shirt, but at least his clothes looked like they fit. His binder was showing from his underneath the collar of his shirt. He looked like he hadn’t slept well in days, his dollar sandals were barely holding together and he had dark circles under his eyes. His hair wasn’t bleached yet and his tanned skin was natural; he was showing his half-mestizo heritage well. Crumbled notebook sketches were by his feet and his sketchbook had seen better days. He chowed down on the burger in his hands like it was the first real meal he had had all day, it was.

Ivan was just coming out of rehab for a rebounded-rebounded cocaine addiction, pockets going threadbare as he was living off the very scraps of his inheritance in his father’s will. This was his third time and he had been warned that his next offense was going to be straight jail time, he had to get his together or he was going to be penniless and homeless, his songwriting was mediocre at best, the rent was due soon and he couldn’t avoid his landlord forever. The lights had been off for about three months now and a kindly neighbor had bought his lie about “trying to get sober” or “going cold turkey again” or some other third thing – nonetheless, the old woman was letting him use her water and she didn’t ask too many questions, sometimes left him some food in the oven to eat since he was so skinny. Ivan had returned the favor by selling her lamp for an extra few dollars to afford an extra few ounces of white.

Ivan had timidly gone up to the fresh-faced youth, licking cracked dry lips and blurted, “Hey.”

Alfred glanced up, chewing over a large bite, eying the larger male like he was sketchy. Well, he kinda was back, he probably still looked like an addict, barely clean and shaking in places in clothes too big on his starving build.

“I-Is that good?” Ivan stammered, pointing at the sandwich. It looked like the picture of ‘Mahi burger’ but the Russian didn’t smell any fish. He could barely smell anyways but-

“Yeah,” Alfred grunted, taking another bite. Ivan’s mouth watered, he was hungry, having been on a binge for several days and his stomach growled audibly before he could stop it. The taller clutched it, groaning in pain, everything hurt during withdrawal and he wished that he could have saved at least a small hit off his last stash.

There was a pause and then a weird noise. Like wet squelching and soft ripping – then Alfred was handing part of his sandwich out to him, an empathetic look on his face. Not sympathetic, but knowing. Understanding. It took Ivan a minute to react and then he took the offered piece in shaky, almost bony fingers. He could have wept but shoved the whole piece in his mouth.

Ivan made a small happy noise from inside his throat and Alfred laughed. It reminded him of excited parades, proud marches and the blare of trumpets in the American national anthem.

The Russian had sat on that curb, dumb-founded, by this suddenly beautiful being in front of him, grinning with a gap between his front teeth and floppy dark curls in front of his face. He squinted somewhat like he had bad vision but couldn’t afford glasses yet.

Ivan grinned back.

:::

Ivan looked at that abandoned food truck, left as a memento in the space, weeds and grass growing around and entangled in the spokes of the wheels. The window was broken in but the man doubted anything of value had been stolen. If someone hadn’t been specifically looking for it, then it would have been overlooked; more rundown than most of the older buildings in this part of the LA district. No one bothered to take care of it. No one cared.

Some odd-ten years since then and Ivan felt a wash of nostalgia come over him, he walked up to the food truck and brushed his inked fingers over the faded label. The words were barely still visible and it made the man’s heartstrings clinch in pain. Old memories died hard, old habits died even harder.

Ivan sighed and noticed that the pup was getting antsy to go back to the apartment, the sun was setting. He had lost track of time and he suddenly remembered that Alfred would be home soon. He clicked his tongue and the pup trotted after him, turning around and heading back the way they came, barely passing a glance over his shoulder to give the abandoned food truck one last look.

:::

When Alfred did come home, he looked exhausted, shrugging off his evening jacket before realizing he could smell food. He followed his nose and it led him to the kitchen where Ivan was finishing up. It smelled good and it looked halfway decent, the Russian wasn’t much of a chef but he had remembered some basics from his mother. The pup was happily lapping from its water bowl and Alfred felt more than saw Ivan look at him.

“Wanna eat with me?” Ivan asked. “I made that vegan pasta shit you like.”

“Oh? Did you add the pineapple?” Alfred tried to peek over Ivan’s shoulder to peer into the pot, standing on his tip toes and putting his nose on the dip in the taller man’s shoulder. He could feel the chuckle run through him and it left tingles in his belly, he missed that laugh. He missed being this close to the other.

“Yes,” Ivan replied. “Even though it tastes dis-”

Alfred elbowed him and the other laughed, this time aloud, and it made the shorter man almost laugh too. God, he had missed that laugh. Just hearing it again was already lifting his spirits from the night before.

Dinner went… well, so much better than before at the sushi restaurant. No arguing, just playful banter and catching up on each other’s latest updates. Ivan had gotten Marilyn Manson’s signature tattooed on his arm beside Ozzy Osbourne and he had brandished it, pride beaming off him in waves. His tour had been extended, after all, and he had lost sleep some nights because some concerts were nearly back to back but Ivan hadn’t complained. He had long waited for when thousands were chanting his name and he adored the attention from the spotlight. The crowd’s energy made every hour of sleep lost worth it, the adrenaline high of a good show always a better alternative to coffee or caffeine pill.

Alfred had been happy for him, just smiling the entire time, grin about ready to split his face.

Then Ivan wiped his mouth while Alfred was laughing, a small giggle-snort escaping the younger male despite his best efforts to conceal it. Then Ivan’s smile started to fade and as the last few giggles left Alfred and he wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, he noticed Ivan’s face almost looked grim. Guilty. Regretful. Like he was about to confess something-

“-need to tell you. It’s been heavy on my mind for a while now- “

_No…no…no_ , the younger man was already shaking his head and his face felt hot, breathing speeding up. Not now. Things were looking better. They were getting better, they were laughing again, things were gonna get better this time around and-

“-and I don’t want to keep it from you anymore…”

_Please, no_ , Alfred wanted to scream.

“-someone else, it was a fling at first. I don’t know why I did it- “

_No, you promised, no, you swore you were done this time_ , Alfred told himself, he could feel himself shutting down, trying to save himself from hearing the rest.

“-I mean, I wasn’t even drunk. Shit, I wasn’t even high, this time, I promise – “

_Not again_ , he told himself. _Not again, they were doing so much better._

“-but I fucked up, Fedya. Big time. And I- “

Alfred saw the world start to fade out as he felt salty tears fall over his lips.

“…she’s pregnant, Alfred. I am so sorry.”

**Author's Note:**

> yup im still in this fandom, still the rusame high priestess and still one of the best of aph angst imo   
> also pls go wish my lovely wifey [skywalkerchick1138 on tumblr] a happy birthday!! <3


End file.
